


Working Hours

by MagicRobot



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicRobot/pseuds/MagicRobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coaxing any sort of reaction out of Perceptor is a bit of a chore. Luckily, Drift is up for the task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Hours

It was difficult to garner any sort of reaction out of Perceptor, even during interface. The scientist seemed almost afraid to let go. There was a tautness to his frame that took a delicate amount of patience and finesse in order to unravel. Drift didn’t mind - in fact, he took it as a challenge.

A challenge that brought him to Perceptor during his most preoccupied moments. Then, he was focused, unsuspecting, and, most of all, unguarded. Perceptor was the type to get so embroiled in his work as to lose all sense of the outside world. Drift took full advantage of this fact.

"Drift, I’m trying to work here," said Perceptor, even as his legs began to part around the white helm. His digits continued to work at the console in front of him, his optics never leaving the glyphs on the screen. As such, he missed the wicked grin that appeared on Drift’s face.

Drift dragged his glossa along Perceptor’s interface panel. He lapped at the seams, tracing them slowly. A shudder ran through Perceptor’s frame. Drift smirked, mouthing at the panel with enthusiasm. He felt Perceptor shift under him and he doubled his efforts. He placed his servos on Perceptor’s thighs, rubbing his thumbs in slow circles. The metal heated slowly under his touch.

A sigh escaped Perceptor, just barely audible over the clicking of his typing. He parted his legs further, sliding his interface panel open. His spike emerged from its housing. It was only half-hard, but Drift was determined to remedy that situation quickly.

Drift lapped at the head, his digits curling around the base. His helm bobbed minutely. It wasn’t long before the spike was fully hard, the biolights on the sides lighting up with readiness. He gave one last lick to the head before fitting the spike into his mouth. He ran his glossa along the underside, pulling the spike back out in one fluid motion. His optics remained on Perceptor the entire time.

Perceptor let loose a low moan that tapered off quickly. It wasn’t much, but it was a victory to Drift.


End file.
